The child is in me still, and sometimes not so still. (Mr. Rogers)
This land which has held, and nurtured, and sustained us for over 40 years, has again become a verb rather than a noun— as in, the land is landing, or doing whatever land does when it moves, changes, morphs . . . With all the rain we have had, our sizable garden has become a swamp this winter, now more saucer-shaped than flat. And my beloved and ancient Narnia-like light post now lists at a definite angle, kinda like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, even though it is still firmly embedded in the ground. Makes one wonder how much more “landing” this land is gonna do.
My fantasy is that ole Eddie-the-Troll (from Finding Gold in Hidden Places, 12/29/17 — remember him?) has become a party animal, and the ground is rocking and rolling from his shenanigans, probably with his kitty cohorts. And deep underground, on the stillest of nights, I can indeed hear the faint ring of raucous laughter and questionable music.
And Eddie had been the calmest and quietest of neighbors. One just never knows. Could be that he has been driven slightly bonkers by the drip-drip-dripping of continual rain leaking into his underground chambers. Could be that he has been in therapy, and is attempting to integrate his inner child. Could be.
Or maybe he just got tired of the solitary life, and of spending most of his time chewing on old rock in the darkness, and decided to live a little.
If so, good for you, Eddie! We all oughta take a page, or maybe even a chapter, from that book.
But one request, dear Eddie. Could you maybe move a little bit downstream before we’re completely inundated, and slide off the map?